


Here You Will Thrive

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Divine Reassurance, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Standing in the rain, Thunderstorms, Visions, Visits From Gods, Written Before Episode 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: Gardening is a novel thing for Yasha. The seeds she plants in the ground are so small, it seems impossible that they will grow into plants that will push their way out of the earth, as much as Caduceus gently encourages them to do so. It’s a different sort of magic than what she’s used to. She finds herself singing softly as she waters the seeds, and every night she goes to bed with her mind at ease and dirt under her fingernails instead of blood, surrounded by painted flowers.Peace doesn’t last, as much as she wants it to. One night she wakes from a dream she can’t remember, hands clenched into fists, her heart racing and her gasping breaths as loud to her ears as the sound of rain and wind from outside. She uncurls her fingers and for a moment she swears she sees blood filling her palms to drip upon the bedspread. When she gasps and blinks, her hands are just her hands, clean except for the dirt under her nails.





	Here You Will Thrive

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having Emotions over Caduceus making a garden for weeks, and with Yasha helping him with it, I just had to write something. You can tell whenever we get Ashley back, Yasha & Caduceus fic increases.
> 
> Also I will never let anyone forget that the Wildmother's other domain besides Nature is Tempest, same as the Stormlord. It's just too good.

Even after almost a week, the rooftop garden mostly consists of the tree and of potential. Caduceus has plans for some of it, certain flowers and vegetables he’d like to cultivate, both from his home and from Xhorhas, and Yasha has spent a good portion of her time helping to get the soil ready for them. But there’s a patch of ground over in one corner that Caduceus has asked her not to touch. She had seen him bury his hands in the earth there, and he waters it from time to time, speaking gently to it all the while, but that is all.

“Is it sacred?” Yasha asks.

Caduceus chuckles softly. “No more than any other part of the garden, which I guess means that it is. It’s important to always leave some of your garden to grow wild, no matter how much you may plan out the rest. At least, that’s what my mother and father taught me. It’s a way to show Her respect, and that you understand that nature cannot ever be wholly tamed.” He grins at her, eyes shining in the light from the string of daylight spells that are wound through the tree. “And it’s fun being surprised by what comes out of the ground.”

“Everything about this has been fun,” Yasha says, and she means it. Gardening is a novel thing for her. The seeds she plants in the ground are so small, it seems impossible that they will grow into plants that will push their way out of the earth, as much as Caduceus gently encourages them to do so. It’s a different sort of magic than what she’s used to. She finds herself singing softly as she waters the seeds, and every night she goes to bed with her mind at ease and dirt under her fingernails instead of blood, surrounded by painted flowers.

Peace doesn’t last, as much as she wants it to. One night she wakes from a dream she can’t remember, hands clenched into fists, her heart racing and her gasping breaths as loud to her ears as the sound of rain and wind from outside. She uncurls her fingers and for a moment she swears she sees blood filling her palms to drip upon the bedspread. When she gasps and blinks, her hands are just her hands, clean except for the dirt under her nails.

Thunder rolls outside, and Yasha can hear the rain but she can’t feel it on her skin, and that’s _wrong._ She dresses in the dark, not bothering with her boots, and lunges for the door to the balcony. Outside, the rain comes down in sheets, lightning leaping from cloud to cloud like deer. Yasha stands on the balcony, cold stone under her feet and cold rain pouring down on her as she tilts her face up towards the sky. It’s good, it’s helping, and at least now when she shivers it’s because of the rain and not because of the things she can’t remember. If Molly were here, he’d tell her to let whatever she can’t remember stay forgotten, that it doesn’t matter what she might have done in her past, just what she does now. But he isn’t here, and the weight of what she might have done is so heavy.

_You are still shackled, child._

Is the past her shackles then? Is it guilt that binds her? She doesn’t know. The Stormlord told her to struggle, to push, and she had and for a moment, just a moment, she had _changed._ It hadn’t lasted, had been just a taste, a hint of what she _could_ be, maybe what she had always been meant to be. If she uncovered her past, confronted it, came to terms with whatever she didn’t remember doing and what she _did_ remember doing, would that break her bonds?

Suddenly, being out on the balcony doesn’t feel like enough. Her bare feet are quiet on the floor as she rushes back inside, as she ascends the tower to the garden. It smells different up here, like wet soil and growing things, and Yasha breathes deeply as she looks around. The daylight spells on the tree are dark, instead lightning illuminates the garden in flashes. There is a stone shelter overgrown with carefully cultivated moss, thick and soft, and Yasha wonders if Caduceus is sleeping inside or if he’s awake and listening to the storm. Instead of going over to see, she places her hand against the bark of the tree and listens to the leaves rustle in the wind as the branches sway. The trunk is as solid and strong as stone, and Yasha finds a sort of comfort in that.

Lightning flashes again, and Yasha is suddenly reminded of a lightning struck tree she had once seen, a piece of which she still carries with her. Her first thought is that it would be terrible if this tree, so beautiful and strong, was destroyed, not to mention the damage it might do to the tower and thus her friends. Her second thought is for her own safety.

“Please don’t strike the tree,” Yasha says softly, head tilted towards the sky. She doesn’t know if it counts as a prayer, or if the Stormlord is even listening. He was listening to her the last time there was a storm, so surely He is listening now?

“ _The garden will take no harm from this._ ” The voice is not that of the Stormlord, and yet it still sounds like the storm has a voice, words made up of leaf rustle and rainfall. It’s comforting instead of startling, and something about it reminds Yasha of Caduceus, and how he speaks of his goddess. “ _The god you follow is not the only one who can command the storm.”_

Lightning flashes, closer, bright enough that Yasha shuts her eyes against it. When she opens them again, there is someone standing in the part of the garden that Caduceus had left to grow wild. Her skin is the green of the first leaves of spring, Her hair a wild tangle of vines and flowers that Yasha doesn’t know the names of. She glows with a blueish-white light the same color as lightning, and when She walks towards Yasha, Her bare feet leave flowers in her wake.

The air around Yasha suddenly smells not only rain and ozone, but of flowers, and she is reminded, suddenly, of the field of wildflowers she saw when she first came to the Empire, and how she had been so overwhelmed by the smell and the color and the _beauty_ of them that all she had been able to do for a time was to stand in the field and weep. She doesn’t realize she is crying now until she goes to speak and her voice shakes.

“I—ummm—thank you.” Yasha tries to wipe the tears from her cheeks and then lets her hands fall from her face. It won’t help, and her tears are indistinguishable from the rain anyway. “Are you the Wildmother? Should I— kneel or something?” Yasha feels her cheeks burning as the goddess, for surely that is what She is, smiles at her. “I’m sorry, I’m— new to gods.”

The Wildmother, for who else could it be, chuckles softly, and it’s the sound of rain falling on leaves. _“You do not have to kneel, child, unless you would feel more comfortable doing so.”_

Yasha remains standing, unable to tear her gaze away from the goddess. Her eyes are as dark as the night sky, impossibly deep and somehow impossibly kind. Had she attracted Her attention with her small prayer? “I didn’t mean to trouble you.”

The Wildmother’s smile is gentle. _“You did not trouble me. I was here,”_ She gestures widely as if to indicate both the garden and the storm, _“and I wanted to speak to you anyway.”_

“Me? But I’m not—I don’t—“ Yasha struggles to find words that won’t feel like an insult. “I do not… worship you. I’m sorry.”

_“You have worked the earth with joy in your heart and a song on your lips. That would have been worship enough for me if you had meant it as such. You have nothing to be sorry for. I only wished to thank you.”_

Now Yasha is terribly confused, and that confusion must show on her face. The Wildmother simply nods as she looks out over the garden.

_“Your Caduceus, my Clay, has never been one to make a fuss, and he always puts the feelings of others before his own. That is how it has been since he was born. It is his nature. He would never say that he misses his family, or his home.”_ The Wildmother reaches out and touches Yasha’s cheek with a hand as warm and gentle a sunlight in spring. _“You have helped him create something that eases his soul. I would like to ease yours, if I could.”_

“I—“ Yasha has run out of words, overwhelmed perhaps by the nearness of the deity, by Her touch. Out of the corner of her eye she can see that her winds have emerged without her knowledge or will, the bones as bare as tree branches in winter.

_“You have managed to grow in poor soil,”_ the Wildmother says. _“And you have put down roots only to have yourself pulled away from that which had anchored them, time and time again. You have been watered with blood and believe yourself a rose with thorns so sharp that they would harm whomever gets close to you. But that is not so.”_

Warmth flows through Yasha and for a moment she swears there are _leaves_ growing from the bones of her bare wings, rustling in the wind. The Wildmother leans closer and Yasha closes her eyes as the goddess whispers in her ear.

_“Dig your roots deep. Find your strength and you will grow and thrive as you were always meant to. Your friends will come to you and you will protect them from all that would do them harm. You are no rose, child.”_

When Yasha opens her eyes again, the rain has stopped and she is sitting at the base of the tree, the wind that had been near roaring before now nothing more than a gentle breeze. When she stretches, she is surprised to find that she is not stiff or sore like she would have been if she had fallen asleep sitting up in the rain. She’s not actually sure she’s slept at all, though it feels like some time has passed and she feels rested.

It’s only when she stands up that she sees something glowing faintly over in one corner of the garden, in the spot Caduceus had left mostly alone. Where last night there had been only bare earth, now there was a patch of small, blue-white flowers the color of a lightning strike, shaped like stars. Not only that, but there was a trail of flowers leading up to the base of the tree where Yasha was standing.

Yasha stares at the flowers, then up at the tree above her, at the dark sky through the branches. She thinks of the Wildmother telling her she is not a rose. She thinks of roots pushing into the ground, of plants struggling to break the surface, of how an something as small as an acorn can become something as strong as an oak, if the conditions are right. She thinks of bones and feathers, branches and leaves.

“I’m not a rose,” Yasha whispers. “I’m a tree.”

“Yasha?”

Yasha turns to see Caduceus standing just outside of his little grotto holding two cups of tea, his staff balanced in the crook of his arm, the crystal glowing softly. She walks over to him, smiling, and takes the cup he offers her. It smells like lilacs and lavender, and drinking it is like drinking a garden.

“Would you look at that,” Caduceus says softly, his voice full of wonder, motioning towards the flowers that have sprung up overnight. “The ground is full of surprises.”

“It is,” Yasha agrees. In a moment she will tell Caduceus about her dream or vision, whatever it was. For now she is just content to breathe in the smell of wet dirt and growing things, to drink tea that tastes like a garden, and to enjoy the feel of her bare feet digging into the earth like the roots of a tree.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm angel-ascending on Tumblr and angel_in_ink on Twitter if y'all want to stop by and say hi!


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